Crowley Versus the French
by freudian fuckup
Summary: A/C - Crowley feels that Aziraphale has not been adhering to the Agreement as strictly as he ought to, and he has an idea of how to even things out.


"Well, _obviously_ your side invented it."

"What does that have to do with it? We invented television too, but I think we can agree _that_ didn't turn out as we'd have liked," Aziraphale says.

"But you didn't make television vital to human existence."

"No, your lot took care of that, I suppose."

"Look, angel, all I'm saying is that it can't be evil."

"Have you –" Aziraphale stutters and turns a rather unattractive shade of scarlet, "have you _seen_ some of the things they get up to? Abuse and degradation and leather, Crowley, leather!"

Crowley chuckles a little mischievously. "Alright, so that bit I invented."

"That was _you?_ Crowley!" The angel blushes even deeper, if it were humanly possible.1

"Oh, don't be such a Puritan.2 They'd have got 'round to it themselves… Eventually. I just nudged a farmer in the right direction and things worked themselves out."

Aziraphale looks as though he is trying to say several things simultaneously and none of them are cooperating. "There's a whole _magazine_ devoted to that now. They call it 'Better with Leather' and it's sold in a brown paper bag!"

Crowley's eyebrows dart upwards, above the shiny plastic frames of his sunglasses. "Do they? And you're familiar with this publication?" He looks so much like a snake sometimes that Aziraphale wants nothing more than to pop him in the icebox and watch him squirm.

"I am not – I do _research_, Crowley. 'Know thine enemy' and whatnot. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"Isn't that convenient…" Crowley mutters, albeit audibly.

Aziraphale puts a stack of dictionaries on the table a bit violently and rounds on Crowley with God's holy wrath written on his face. "I do _not_ have a – a leather fetish! You're the one that came up with it!"

"Yes, but I'm not the one acting like a blushing school girl about it. You've been around six-thousand years, angel. You can't tell me you've never—" Crowley clears his throat, "—'made an effort'."

"I – I have not. No effort. No efforts have been made, do you hear me?"

"Half of London hears you, Aziraphale, but that doesn't make it true. Did you know your ears twitch when you lie? It's disgustingly cute. Emphasis on the disgusting."

"They do not!" The angel protests, touching his ears self-consciously.

"Aha! So, you admit you're lying?"

Aziraphale exhales loudly and walks behind the counter under the guise of organizing his receipts.3 Really, he just wants to put a few feet and a physical barrier between himself and the demon-that-wouldn't-leave.

"I… I, well, it's part of my job, isn't it? Field agent and whatnot. It's not like I've gone _completely_ native – unlike some people I might mention."

"Hey! No need to go below the belt. Unless you're planning to make yourself useful while you're down there," Crowley says with a lecherous wink.

Aziraphale splutters futilely.

"Oh, come off it. I'm only joking," says Crowley.

The angel relaxes a little and goes back to his receipts.

"Unless you want to," Crowley adds quietly.

"That's quite enough, my dear," Aziraphale says with angelic composure.4

"Fine. But you don't know what you're missing."

"Yes, I do," the angel shoots back. The words hang there in the air for a moment, hovering annoyingly, before raining down on them like molten lava, only slightly less pleasant.

"You what? I was – I was _kidding_, for – for somebody's sake! Who_?_ Who have you been shagging?" Crowley says loudly, looking like he might discorporate himself accidentally exploding.

Aziraphale starts to argue his right to privacy and something about topics fit for polite conversation, but quickly realises that it would be futile to resist, like so many things with Crowley. "A noble in King Charles' court. His name was Pierre and that is all I will say about that, thank you so very kindly."

Crowley looks like he has swallowed a hedgehog. "He was _French?_ What – I – you," he says lamely.

"Enough! I refuse to discuss this with you."

"Obviously! You've been sitting on this for – wait, which 'King Charles' did you say?"

"I didn't. And I won't. It's none of your concern."

"None of my – I am not concerned! But I never actually _believed_ you'd… I'm just… curious. And a little horrified."

"Where do you get off being horrified? I'm sure you've done things that could make Beelzebub himself blush."

"I haven't, actually, but that's not the point. You had it off with a bloke named _Pierre_? Have you no dignity?"

"I'm not sure dignity has much to do with it."

"Not if you're doing it right, I suppose."

"You would know," Aziraphale says deferentially.

"No. I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what?"

"Know," Crowley says, fiddling with a very expensive first edition manuscript that under normal circumstances Aziraphale would have defended with his life.5 He looks aggressively cool, which is a telltale sign that he's uncomfortable. His tongue darts out unconsciously.

Aziraphale pauses a moment, his mouth slightly open.

"Crowley," he begins cautiously, like a man approaching a viper (which, all things considered, is not far off), "am I to understand that you do not – that you have not…" He grasps for an appropriate euphemism, but when none occur to him he settles for a vague, intertwining hand gesture.

Crowley removes his glasses and presses the palm of his hand into his eye socket. He inhales deeply. He exhales slowly. He repositions his glasses.

"Technically, no. Although, I think it bears mentioning that I've been responsible for more illicit acts than that Casanova fellow. And those condom dispensers in public toilets? All me."

"But you never actually, literally…"

"No, alright! I just… Never got around to it. It's not _that_ weird. Plenty of deities don't fancy doing the dirty with a human. Some of us have standards," Crowley says haughtily.

"He wasn't just a human, he was… He liked art and – I don't know. It was the fourteenth century, you know?"

Crowley shrugs.

"Yes, but they're all a bit like children, aren't they? They're around for maybe eighty years – more like fifty back then – and they don't know anything about anything. How could you just…" Crowley shudders and straightens suit.

Aziraphale snatches the first edition from Crowley's reach and starts alphabetizing with fiendish intensity.

"Well, I was curious. We need to know about these things, don't we? I didn't see any other option."

Crowley clears his throat and mutters something under his breath.

"What was that, my dear?"

"I was merely pointing out that humans are not the only inhabitants of this fair rock with the necessary equipment."

The angel laughs and glances back at the demon. "Oh, of course. I suppose I should have found a nice demon all my own. That would have gone well. And whom would you have suggested? Hastur?"

"You could have asked me," Crowley says in a casual tone.

"What now?"

"You could have… Well, if you were going to shag a bloke _anyway_, we could have – two birds with one stone and whatnot, right?" He offers matter-of-factly.

"But you're a _demon_."

"And you're an angel. Strictly speaking, you're not supposed to be buggering anything."

Aziraphale blushes again, but refuses to get angry. He won't give Crowley the satisfaction.

"Well, I didn't know that you'd be so helpful. It's a bit out of character, you must admit."

"I'm not being helpful!" Crowley protests indignantly. "I would have gained useful knowledge from it, too. Whatever happened to the Arrangement? We're supposed to share intelligence and you went off and… _Learned_ without even mentioning it for seven-hundred years." Crowley crosses his arms and does his best to look generally hard-done-by.

"I – I'm sorry? I didn't realise the Arrangement covered, erhm… That."

"Well, I don't see why it wouldn't," says Crowley, a little pathetically.

In six thousand years, Aziraphale has rarely seen the demon look anything but carefree to the point of comatose, so this new, deflated air is a little unsettling. He walks over to where Crowley is leaning against the counter scratching rude words into the dull oak. He places a hand cautiously on the demon's shoulder in what he hopes to be a comforting manner. Crowley jumps as though he's been burned.

"Crowley, I apologize. I was young… ish. And I lost my head. He was clever and cultured and he spoke French to me—"

"He _was_ French."

"Yes, but it was still nice. And, I don't know, I liked him. And I didn't think… I didn't think."

Crowley lets his glasses slip a little and glances at Aziraphale with large, serpentine eyes.

"I can speak French, you know."

"You can – Oh. Oh, Crowley, I'm not certain…" He trails off, unsure of what objection he'd been attempting to mount. He's sure there are a few arguments to be made, but they all seem to be making themselves scarce. Crowley pushes his glasses back into place and carefully places his hand against the side of Aziraphale's face. He runs his thumb over the angel's cheekbone.

"Come on angel, fair's fair – you should know, your side invented fair."

Aziraphale hesitates. There are flaws in this argument, sure, but what's really upsetting is that he doesn't feel like pointing them out. When Aziraphale doesn't shy away, Crowley's thumb glides a little lower, running across the angel's bottom lip. Aziraphale trembles.

"This isn't—"

"It doesn't matter," Crowley whispers, his voice dark and low, and he leans in slowly. Aziraphale reaches between them and pulls away the Crowley's impenetrable glasses. His eyes are wide and innocent looking, which is quite a feat for a demon.

There is a moment, a turning point, a tipping place, when their faces are an inch apart and their breath is hot and mingling, when Aziraphale realises he could still pull away and be no worse off for it, when Crowley knows he can still back down and avoid the repercussions. But they don't pull apart and they don't back down, and their lips meet like a tidal wave meets shore.

Crowley imagines that the shop's blinds are closed, so of course they are, and without much hesitation, he slides his hand down the front of Aziraphale's frumpy, ill-fitting button-up, causing the buttons to fall away like tiny, plastic raindrops. Aziraphale makes a quiet keening sound against Crowley's mouth and their lips move a little more impatiently than before. It's strange after so many years to find such a new and, well, interesting side to their friendship, and Aziraphale privately decides that if he's interrogated on the matter, he will hack the whole thing up to a misguided salvation attempt. Yes, that sounds plausible.

Before he's quite clear what's happening, Crowley finds himself being simultaneously pushed and pulled to the dusty shop floor, Aziraphale's delicate hands on either side of his face. However, despite being the marginally less experienced of the two, Crowley feels confident that being a demon will give him an inherent sense of how things ought to go, and working off of this assumption, he rolls Aziraphale onto his back, straddling his hips with long, wiry legs. Every minute or so there is a pause, during which their lips still and their eyes open, and silent dares are exchanged. _Dare you to stop_. _Dare you to keep going_. Finally, when he can stand it no longer, Crowley lets his mouth wander to the angel's pale throat, licking and tasting the divine skin as though it were a fine wine.

Aziraphale lets his head fall back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, because it feels like the thing to do. Neither of them speaks, but there is a silent tension, an undercurrent of violence and danger that results from their very different natures being in such close proximity. It's the push of two same-magnets, and it's like swimming upstream. Without meaning to, Crowley sinks his knife-sharp fangs into the angel's collarbone, his fingers twisting into Aziraphale's hair. Aziraphale's breath hitches, but he doesn't make a sound. This is combat. This is what angels were made for. Before Crowley has even loosened his grip, Aziraphale digs his fingers into the demon's hair and yanks him up, crushing their mouths together and biting down. Crowley groans unwillingly, and feels his body react in several interesting ways. His hips rock against Aziraphale's body involuntarily, his stomach feels warm and wiggly, and his legs feel weak and useless. Other bits of his anatomy also seem rather interested in the goings on, but Crowley isn't entirely sure what to think about that just yet, so he tries not to.

_This must be what they mean about effort_, he thinks serenely, fighting to keep Aziraphale beneath him as the angel tries to rolls them over once again. Crowley growls, low and in his throat, and grips the back of Aziraphale's neck fiercely. He grapples with the angel's hands and eventually succeeds in pinning them down with his knees.

Aziraphale looks desperate and wanton, which is pretty close to how he feels, and he ponders momentarily how different this is from the last time. It'd only happened once, in a garden, ironically enough, and Pierre had died shortly after of consumption.6 It was a long time ago, but Aziraphale doesn't remember it feeling like this at all, really. It had been sweet and slow, lingering touches and a lot of s'il vous plait's and merci's. Nobles were all terribly fussy back then, even the French ones. _This_ on the other hand, feels like hot poison in his veins and desperation in his soul.

For a few seconds, Crowley toys with the idea of undoing Aziraphale's flies, but quickly discards the thought and miracles away both their trousers. Aziraphale's eyes go wide, and Crowley smirks down at him. He's enjoying this, honestly. Probably a bit more than he should be. But if push comes to being roasted on a spit for all eternity, Crowley is pretty sure he can write this off as an overenthusiastic attempt at Felling a Principality. Sure. Because that's what this is.

Aziraphale feels himself being yanked off the floor by the nape of his neck and crushed against the counter. The receipts go everywhere and Aziraphale spares but a moment to restack them across the room with a flicky wrist motion. Crowley laughs, rough and harsh into his ear.

"Really, angel?"

"They were going to get all ragged and—"

"Look, if you have the ability to stack receipts right now, clearly I'm not doing this correctly."

"My dear, it's not—" But before he can even finish the sentence in his head, Crowley's mouth is on his neck, and something _distinctly_ different from the last time has happened to Aziraphale's insides.

"Oh my—"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence," Crowley rumbles, sliding his hands along the angel's backside.

Aziraphale groans and feels himself being split apart, the edge of the counter digging into his hips sharply.

There is a pause, and Crowley wonders momentarily how he never thought to bloody do this for six-_thousand_ years. It's like hellfire in his veins, and all he can think about is wanting more and now and faster.

And the _angel_. Oh, what a brilliant decision that was. It'd almost been too easy, and he hadn't really thought it through, but hell if his instincts hadn't been on the money. He's shining and holy and he keeps making sounds like _Crowley_ and _oh yes please_, and it makes Crowley's body shake. He didn't realise he needed this. He never knew. Now he does.

Their motions speed up, and the only sound is their stuttered breaths and flesh colliding. Crowley feels words swimming in his throat, so he bites down on the angel's shoulder, harder than he meant to, and he tastes blood. Aziraphale screams, aching and wanton, and Crowley quickly lets go, licking and kissing the red mark, hoping that he hasn't wrecked this, because he _can't_ stop now, he just can't.

But Aziraphale can't either, and he pushes into Crowley's thrusts, hips snapping frantically, feeling full and empty and broken and new all at once, and wanting to feel this way forever.

When he comes, Aziraphale whispers something sacred, and Crowley shivers.

When he comes, Crowley cries out the angel's name, and Aziraphale lets his head fall back against the demon's shoulder.

There is a long silence, and then they both slide to the floor, breathlessly. Crowley's arm is pinned by the counter around the angel's waist, but he makes no real effort to remove it. Aziraphale lets his body collapse into Crowley's warm, solid form.

"That was…"

"That _was_," Crowley mutters. His limbs feel like they're filled with gelatin and his eyes can't seem to focus. He wonders where his glasses are. "Now, tell me that wasn't better."

"Better than what?"

"The French nancy. Come on, could he do that trick with the—"

"There's really no need to be crude about it. And that was… Something," the angel says, wonderingly.

"Yes, we've established that, but how did I – I was _better_, right?" Crowley insists.

"Well, it's not comparable really."

"Because I was just so incredible that—"

"_Because_ he was, well… Him. And you are… You. Because he was French? I don't know."

"Oh, I see. This is one of those mushy lovey angel things, inn't?"

"Sort of, I suppose."

"And since I'm a demon, I'm obviously disqualified."

Aziraphale sits up to look in Crowley's eyes. It's not an opportunity he often gets.

"Crowley, you _are_ a demon. But that hardly disqualifies you from… from whatever these is to be disqualified from. What I mean is that he was human, and though they are wondrous creatures, it's hard to – to relate to them, because there are things they can't know, and you can't expect them to understand."

"But I understand," says Crowley, his fingers snaking up Aziraphale's arm. Without warning, he leans in and licks the bleeding place he's left on the angel's neck.

Aziraphale exhales slowly, his eyes fluttering shut without permission. He looks back at Crowley. "Yes. You understand."

"So that means I was better, right?"

"Oh, do shut up."

1 It's not, but angels are imbued with an extraordinary sense of shame, and a proportionally extraordinary ability to blush, regardless of physical form

2 Not that this is strictly an insult. Crowley loved the Puritans. Nothing stirs up sin quite like sitting through a seven hour sermon

3 All four of them.

4 You know those guards posted outside Buckingham Palace? Like that, but not as twitchy.

5 Though this is admittedly not much of a sacrifice, being immortal and all.

6 It was terribly fashionable at the time. All the chic Parisians were doing it.


End file.
